


Nineteen Roses

by tfbl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfbl/pseuds/tfbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roses have always been a part of their life together. Take a look at how they factor in, and see the one rose that is the most meaningful of them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Disclaimer: Once Upon A Time and what/who you recognize aren't mine. I know that my grammer is awful, but please do not mention it.

Any mentions of rape and violence are minor, but are still there.

 

**Chapter One: Proof Despite The Lie**

The rose he'd given her that day, the day he allowed her to open the curtains and she poured tea into his chipped cup once again and had instantaneously set aside the book he'd been reading when she'd entered the dinning room that morning…. it was the most wonderful gift she'd ever received.

Maybe it was because she had not been born the daughter of a wealthy man but rather the child of a poor fisherman, growing up on the sea and diving for clams before she could read that Belle appreciated simple gifts rather then extravagant ones.

Perhaps it was because it wasn't a gift of gaudy jewels or expensive – yet very ugly – fabric given to her by false admires with oiled praise on their tongue and an additional motive lurking behind their eyes.

Instead the simple and beautiful flower was given to her by her master.

A master who presented it to her with sweet shyness in his voice and was attempting to stifle the hope in his slightly odd eyes as he held it out to her, as if he were unaccustomed to giving gifts and desperately wanted her to accept it – and yet was preparing himself for the rejection he was sure would pass her lips.

A master that makes jokes and increases the pitch of his voice to make her smile and laugh.

An employer that – although supposedly dangerous and depraved – never allowed her to venture into the sight of his more unsavory clients. One whom upon her third day of residing in his castle had given her a room of her own with tall, wide windows and that was filled with soft furniture and books, a fireplace, sunlight and color, a writing desk, as well as a simple and very pretty wardrobe all her own.

A master that always seemed eager to hear her thoughts on any subject, even took them into consideration and regarded them (and Belle herself by extension) with great respect – much to Belle's surprise for no man expect her father had ever considered her voice worthy of notice.

A master whose longing for human contact would revel itself when he would lean into her hands when they rested upon his shoulders or lightly grasped his arm, whom still grieved deeply for his lost son and _was not_ a monster regardless of how he perceived himself.

A master whom Belle already cared very deeply for. She might even go as far as to say that she had fallen in love with him.

Belle takes the rose with her that night when she leaves the castle, Rumplestiltskins' lie and her own tear-filled angry words echoing in her ears.

She leaves the chipped cup sitting on the table, the shattered remains of the cabinet and the meaningless trinkets upon the floor glittering in the shafts of silver moonlight spilling through the windows.

They remind her of tears.

The soft velvet of the petal beneath her fingertips reminds her of the _man_ down below, the one that is her True Love and still loves and wants her no matter what he claims.

Even if she had not kissed him, had not seen the green-gray hue of his skin receding and peach-pink taking its place as his curse began to break, this rose is proof enough of that.


	2. Chapters Two and Three

 

**Chapters Two and Three: Sent, Sickness, and a Siren**

Roses.

The faint, heady odor had instantly captured his attention upon arriving in this castle, in the war room in which he found himself. His eyes scanned the room for the source of the sent as he walked toward the group of men, and to his surprise finding a woman. A woman with dark hair wearing a gold dress and whose bright blue eyes looked at him with curiosity as opposed to fear as she strained against the arm holding her back. The odor came from her. It lingered upon her neck and wrists and floated lightly from the fabric of her dress, seeming to draw him in as if the woman was a siren. He named his price then and there.

Her name was Belle.

After she'd arrived at his castle he had expected the sent to disappear, for he knew it must come from some type of perfume and he had not allowed any personal items to be brought.

It did not fade however. It lingered wherever she'd been, winding through the hallways and floating above the pots in the kitchen, settling in the chair she always sank into whenever she tried to clean the library (she couldn't prevent herself from reading), and clinging to the fabrics that she dusted.

Rumplestiltskin had expected Belle to complain and be inapt at the harder tasks he assigned her, but to his surprise she did them efficiently and without uttering a word. She even seemed to enjoy them, in fact. As a result the same sweet sent was present in the stables she mucked that morning and the garden that had been deweeded and harvested from last week. It was soaked into the chests she'd hulled from one end of the castle to the other, drifted up from the stone floor she scrubbed and the small boat from which algae and salt deposits had been removed, and even seemed to leak out of the fish she'd expertly gutted and flayed for that night's dinner.

When he'd began to follow the sent on foot rather then use magic to pop in on her he told himself it was because he wanted to catch her trying to steal something or to see if he could catch her muttering to herself as she planned her escape. It wasn't because he liked to watch her from the doorway, he (the monster of a master that she must surly think him) remaining unnoticed for a few moments as her curls shimmered in the sunlight as she polished or dusted, the sent of those roses wafting directly toward him.

After their kiss, after he'd allowed his fears and paranoia to take hold and after he'd ordered her from his life, after he'd lied through his teeth and destroyed his possessions, after he'd caused pain in her eyes and felt as if someone was stabbing him through the heart…. after all of that he went into her room.

The room that he'd given her and was always off limits to the likes of him.

He went into her room to look for the source of her sent, for he'd never had the courage to ask her when he'd had the chance. To his surprise there was no perfume, no soap, not even some type of cream to explain the roses. It was then he realized that it must have been her natural sent all along, the magic that gave him that one heightened sense and took for granted for so long that it had been forgotten is what had allowed him to smell what a human could not.

Her room had remained locked after that, but the sent had remained, floating and lingering all over the castle as if Belle was right around the corner, about to make a teasing remark or goad him into dusting or gave him that smile of hers that left him floating on air. It rose from his clothes and the curtains as if Belle was touching him once more or had been playing with the curtains in that absentminded way of hers.

Of course Belle wasn't there. He'd sent her away to live her life without him, and Regina would become best friends with Snow White before Belle – his Belle – came near this castle again.

That didn't stop him from hoping. From watching out the window for hours and neglecting his more pointless deals, from listening for her voice calling his name and refusing to close the curtains.

When he was told what they had done to her, that his Belle had been flayed like a fish and the skin ripped from her back by clerics ordered by _her father_ to cleanse her soul _her soul! as if she were witch of old or had been marked as the_ _ **devils' whore**_ _because she alone had been willing to save their worthless hides!_ he couldn't breathe nor think and just forcing those few words out had almost been more then he could bare.

When Regina told him she died, that she couldn't take the pain anymore and had thrown herself off the tower…

_Belle._

_Oh, God._

_Why hadn't she called for him?_

_Why?_

_Had she thought he wouldn't come?_

_That even if she came to believe his lie that he wouldn't kill every last one of them for_ _**daring** _ _to touch her?_

_That he wouldn't make every last one of them suffer ten fold for every ounce of her pain?_

_He had been_ _**listening** _ _, listening and straining his ears and his magic until both felt as if they would snap if he kept it up another second but he'd continued anyway._

_Why didn't he hear her?_

_Had she called for him at all?_

_Did she scream his name?_

_Whisper it?_

_Sob it?_

_Shriek it as she pleaded and begged for him to help her and for the pain to stop?_

_Curse his very existence for bringing this upon her and yet was more then willing to expect his help if he had come?_

_Come he would have. He would have traveled across the lands in an instant and slaughtered them all. He would have come no matter if she kissed him once again or spat in his face and demanded that he throw himself off the tower for daring to think that he was ever worthy enough for an angel like her._

_Why hadn't -_

_Why?_

_**Why!** _

After Rumplestiltskin had managed to pull himself up from the floor, tears still staining his face and her chipped cup in it's place of honor before him, it was only then that he noticed that the sent of roses had faded away. The opening of his doors by the Queen must had allowed the last of her sent to escape, the rotting fruit stench that belong to Regina now taking it's place.

There was not a hint of roses left.

Her sent was gone.

Just as Belle herself was gone.

Forever.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

"It was a brief flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness."

Rumplestiltskin recalls his words to the false Prince, whom is now doing what he, the Dark One has requested. Hide the bottle of True Love inside the belly of a beast, more sepefcially the belly of a dragon. A dragon whom is in fact a witch betrayed and cursed by Regina, and whom by now is no doubt angrier then hell about her everlasting transformation. That is one reason why Rumplestiltskin was reluctant to attempt this himself, for he has no desire to spend the next few days in agony as his skin regrows. The second reason is that he knows Regina will want to take the dragon-witch along when the curse is enacted, and it wouldn't do for her to sense his magic lingering about.

Rumplestiltskin has no fear that what he asks will not be done, for he has every intention of keeping that ring until it is. As that is the Prince's only hope of finding his love it will be done, and Rumplestiltskin knows that after the Prince has honored his agreement with him he will instantly continue running after the woman whom had been foolish enough to wish to forget him in the first place.

The same fool and false one whose True Love and the child that will result from their union have become essential to his plans.

All the plans to find his son are coming into place.

As of this moment he can't bring himself to care, although he knows that he soon will.

All he can think of is Belle. Her laughter and frowns, the way she'd bit her lip while reading and who couldn't make stew without burning the potatoes.

Who actually smiled at him when he returned home from one of his deals, her sparkling eyes and the eager way her body leaned towards him convoying each time that her emotions were genuine no matter how many he expected that he'd see otherwise. Who caused him to find himself anticipating returning to his castle for the first time in all the centuries he'd lived there, even when he'd gained nothing from a deal.

Belle, who took her tea black and strong and put jam on her porridge, whom possessed not the hands of one born to wealth but rather one born into common labor and was not afraid to speak her mind regardless if she knew doing so would displease him.

Belle, the image of whom haunted his dreams as his mind replayed the scenes of it's own creation. Belle, tied up and spread eagled with bruises covering her pale skin and fear in her eyes as a cleric advanced toward her, knife in hand. Belle, her skin laying in strips of the floor beside her as blood poured from the newly exposed muscle, her back laid open to the bone and flies beginning to descend on the wounds.

Belle, her lips silent but her anguished eyes finding his. Pleading for him to help her.

To save her.

Belle, throwing herself off the tower when the pain was too great and he did not come, her form hurtling to the ground – heart beating, breath coming, skin tingling , fear registering, alive!- and that same form shattering apart upon impact.

Belle, whom he saw the image of everywhere about the castle. Dusting, sewing, walking and sometimes running past him, an ink smudge on her nose, curls in attractive disarray, pouring tea and her mouth slightly parted as she slept.

Belle, whose voice rang in his ears with such consistency he almost feared he was going insane.

_Why do you spin so much?_

_Where did those puppets come from?_

_I'm so sorry. This is chipped._

_Don't glare at me! You need food and a few hours of sleep at least. You'll become sick if you don't. Wait, can you get sick?_

_I think you were lonely._

_Since you've read every book in the library, perhaps you can tell me how it is that you've got storybooks and strange manuals galore, but there's not one decent tome on the shelves? Every library needs at least few hundred thick, good tomes._

_Why won't you believe me?_

_Stop trying to ignite the chessboard with your mind. It's not it's fault that you can't win._

_I will go with you, forever._

_What do you think of the sea?_

_You're a coward, Rumplestiltskin._

Belle.

His days were destroyed by her voice and image, daylight arriving and gone before he was able to muster the strength to move. The calling of his name and pleas for aid went unanswered for the weight crushing him wouldn't allow him to tolerate the presence of another, let alone himself. Food wouldn't stay down and drink had no effect, sleep evaded him and tears refused to come although his throat burned and his eyes ached. He became accustomed to feeling half dead inside.

Belle, whom had loved him. Whom he loved. His love and been what had killed her, as surly as if he'd been the one to push her off that tower.

Belle, who smelled of roses. The smell of a siren. The smell that now made him sick.

That sent is here with him now, within this forest.

Turning his head Rumplestiltskin sees a rose bush, growing wild and abound with sharp thorns and tangled vines, the bright yellow flowers in full bloom.

The sent reaches his nose, the sweet and heavy odor seeming to roll over him like honey and making anger simmer in his stomach as his eyes prickle and bile rises in his throat.

With a wave of his hand the bush is ablaze, the flames consuming the plant and smoke rising as leaves curl and petals shrivel.

Rumplestiltskin magics himself away from the forest clearing and in an instant appears on a lake shore. The black castle of the cursed witch looms in the distance. The wind is cold against his skin and water lands upon his face.

His eyes are no longer stinging but anger still sits in his stomach and bile has become stuck somewhere in his throat, the acid burning the back of his tongue.

He welcomes the slight pain.

The perfume of burning roses lingers heavily in his nose.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((

He will admit, kidnapping Moe French had not been the brightest idea. Nor had beating the man almost to death. Rumplestiltskin didn't care all that much, no matter that he was in another cage.

That fool of a man was lucky that he'd been able to hold out on that beating for as long as he did. From the second he'd laid eyes on him – Belle's father – in this cursed land he'd wanted to hurt him.

Kill him.

Make him suffer.

For French had cast Belle out, he'd rejected her and sent those clerics and caused her suffering.

He was the one that made her leap from that tower! It was _his_ fault! Not his own! _**Never**_ his fault!

He ignores the voice inside him, the one that whispers in his ear and causes the same nightmares of Belle the plagued him in his world : _Only it was his, Rumplestltiskins' fault, wasn't it? He'd had her love and had shut her out, told her she was worth nothing to him…. drove her away. Made her go back to her father._

So for three decades Rumplestiltskin made life as hard as possible for the wretched man. He took his belongings and sent in his goons and upped the pathic bastards rent, everything short of things obviously illegal. It wouldn't do to have Regina suspect that he remembered too soon, after all.

It had been the theft of Belle's cup that pushed him over the edge of his rage, that caused him to kidnap the man.

How _**dare**_ he take what Belle had touched? How dare he defile the only thing he had left of her?

Yes, the cup had made him take the pathic scum, but as he was driving that truck it was the smell that drove him to the breaking point. There was roses in the back of the truck.

As the sent reached him with every breath and memories of Belle came to his mind's eye his rage grew, boiling stronger with every passing second until by the time French was cowering on the cabin floor he was so close to killing him he could almost see the blood on his cane.

The words that he yelled as his cane struck flesh, over and over again, were not lost on Rumplestiltskin. Neither was the knowdgle that as he beat the man… he was really beating himself, blaming himself, cursing himself.

Belle's death was just as much the fault of her father as it was his.

It was easier, that's all. To blame someone else, just as he still blamed the Blue Fairy for taking Baelfire.

For if another was to blame… perhaps he hadn't failed her. Perhaps he was capable of being the man that she had seen, somehow. Perhaps he wasn't a worthless monster.

Belle was long dead, though. It hadn't been another's fault, not entirely. So the fantasy of being her hero and a man were just that: fantasies. Nothing more.

So now as he sits in this jail cell he doesn't regret beating the man, the father whom was partially to blame and had the gall to have roses in his truck.

He's glad that he didn't kill him though. Belle would have hated him forever if he had.

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Weeks latter the bell rings in front of his shop and he quickly turns to hide gold canister that just moments ago held something very important which is curcial to finding his son, that due to it's lingering magic has already restored the heightened senses he'd once possessed.

The sent reaches him moments before the voice does, tugging at the string of memory within his mind.

Roses.

"Excuse me. Are you Mr. Gold?"

No. it can't be. It's just that his smell is on overload, his mind struggling to process odors it has not been able to detect for so many years. It's getting the aromas of sunlight, dust, silk, dead wood, magic, and so much else mixed up that it's involuntary created a new sent.

He speaks, turning as he does so.

"Yes I am, but I'm afraid the shop's close-"

His mind goes blank, the breath stopping in his lungs and his voice ceasing as his knees go weak.

She is there, standing before him.

Belle.

His Belle.

The aroma of roses engulfs him, drawing him in as if she were a siren.


	3. Three

 

**Chapter Four: Memories and Tales**

The dress that is given to her in place of her hospital clothes after arriving in Rumplestiltskins' home is almost an exact replica of the blue one she had once worn.

It reaches to mid calf, has a form fitting bodice and loose skirt, and even has those short lace sleeves and lace trimmed color. The difference is that this dress is deep gold and patterned with pink roses the size of her smallest fingernail. It is, without a doubt, the prettiest garment she has worn in…. well, she had stopped trying to count the time – _years, hours, months, days?_ – after a while. The time spent within the Queen's dungeon, her cage in the hospital, and the curse itself had left her sense of time in a pointless, useless jumble of false memories and false time and false _everything_.

Everything expect the pain.

That had been real.

The recall of the nerve searing agony of the magic that the Queen had blasted her with back inside her castle, that had caused her to wither and scream until her throat tore and tear her own flesh into bloody ribbons.

_After the curse had been lifted, Belle recalled that she had wanted to scream for him. To howl his name as the pain racked her, for she knew that he would come. He would come and protect her because he loved her. This she knew. She also knew now, as she hadn't before, that The Queen – her jailer and tormenter – wanted that. The vile woman craved Rumplestiltskin' power, would love to witness his pain, and would enjoy bringing about his death._

_Belle would never allow that._

_So she stayed silent of that one utterance the Queen desired and kept her eyes open, training them on the second most bottom stone in the far left corner, where someone before her had poorly etched a rose. The rose helped her to prevent his name from passing her lips, for even when tears and pain blinded her she pictured it in her mind's eye and was able to endure the flames licking her skin._

_It reminded her of another rose, the one given to her with a shy smile and was proof of love held for her, the one that had been crushed beneath the Queen's heal._

_So Belle clawed at her skin, slammed her body against stone, bit holes through her lips and allowed only meaningless noise to issue from her throat._

_Never his name._

_The Queen was displeased with that. She issued more pain, laughing when Belle rocked and crawled along the dungeon floor, for all the world resembling nothing more then a frightened rabbit mindlessly trying to escape the pain._

" _Broken", the Queen called her, whispering it almost tenderly as her scarlet lips brushed against her ear as if she were her lover._

" _A broken doll."_

" _Broken Belle."_

" _His little broken Belle."_

_The pain always doubled._

The pain that she had been injected with in the hospital, the liquid moving through her veins with every beat of her heart and causing anguish so mind numbing that all she could do was scream. The restrains had prevented her from clawing at her body, and the straps never allowed her to wither.

To try and escape the pain.

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Everything expect him.

Rumplestiltskin.

She had remembered him even when she trembled in fear and tried to push herself into the corner of her cell at bathtime because the burly orderlies would dunk her into the tub of freezing water and hold her head beneath the surface, stopping only when she had fire in place of lungs and the world above her had begun to grow dark.

Belle knew him when she was Hannah French and had been sent here by her father because she heard voices. Voices that she hadn't heard _once_ since coming here, no matter what that stupid excuse for a shrink said.

_And how would he know anyway? It's_ _**her** _ _mind, not his. She knows what she hears and what she doesn't. He can only guess and any voice inside her head that she dose hear is her own, no one else's. Her mental voice is completely rational too, thank you very much. It's logical, there's no strange thoughts or word salad, and if it does occasionally lapse into inchorancey…. well seeing no one for days at a time expect people that tell you you're nuts and nurses with pain needles and orderlies that try to kill you on a semi regular basis would do that to anyone. Besides the last time she checked simply_ _**thinking** _ _didn't make you crazy._

Belle had never known his name of course, nor who he was. She dreamt about him at night, a strange man with gray skin and a high laugh surrounded by golden strands and had and a deep sadness lurking behind his snake like eyes. A man of whom she wasn't afraid although common sense told her she should be afraid of monsters….. expect this dream man wasn't a monster. So what was there to fear?

Speaking of which, that man is waiting for her downstairs.

The man whom had stared at her as if she were a ghost and had clung to her as if she might vanish at any moment.

The one with human skin and human eyes and whom she has _remembered_.

The man whom had the power to rule worlds and have them all serve him on bended knee, if he so desired it. Whom should by all rights fear nothing and crave even less for it was undeniably his for the taking no matter if it was freely given - and yet it she whom he would serve on bended knees if that was her wish. Her, an ordinary girl born to poverty and had become a Lady by sheer and undesired chance, was the one whose contempt and rejection and for whose life and freedom he feared. It was her acceptance and admiration and presence and even something as simple as her smile that he craved – that he prized, in fact. Prized freely given and in no other way, be it well intended falsehood or magical compliance would it accepted or desired. A man whom has all that and more of which he craves from her, bestowed upon him in a way that no one else ever earned nor ever will.

Whom had stood quietly as she spoke words fueled by anger and fear as purple magic engulfed them all.

_The man who had fallen to his knees beside the well, moaning and clutching his head in pain and muttering through clenched teeth something about "those damn memories". The man whom had told her about them after he had risen to his feet and felt her hands grasping his arms and seen that concern had replaced the so recent anger and fear in her expression. He'd told her haltingly and with eyes that pleaded with her to listen, to understand. Rumplestiltskin explained to her, there next to the wishing well, that he holds the memories of them all inside his mind, the thoughts and experiences and lives of all the ones that came into his power before him._

_Women and men, girls and boys, young and old, children and adults._

_Hundreds upon hundreds of lifetimes swimming though his head, snippets of homes he'd never seen burned to the ground, foreign lands trembling beneath his feet and mountains erupting with fire and bodies being violated and thousands of long forgotten kingdoms falling._

_Flashes of people slain, blood coating hands that do not belong to him, the lives of those that curse and tremble before him saved once again, wild animals covering the land in vast numbers and that same land destroyed and overrun with people. Feelings of anger, fleeting hope, sadness and loss, demented joy and kindness attempted and cruelty rejoiced in, despair and lust, fear, and millions more that were never truly his to experience._

_Images of those whom were loved or loved in return, mouths open in screams and animals that have become the only source of kindness and companionship experienced, the dagger passed from hand to hand of those that enslave them as their magic and will are stolen from them, and the weariness of the world and their lives too great a burden as they desperately seek someone else to end their existence and shoulder the power._

_A man whose own three centuries of lifetimes and experiences and deeds and almost soul deep weariness have joined those of the others, for all of which belongs to him is the same yet different from the rest._

_A man who has not gone insane, despite it all._

The man that had eagerly responded to her kiss in his hallway, his hands framing her face while she tangled her fingers in his hair in an effort to pull him even closer, neither one caring when their lungs began to burn nor noticing that the light spilling through the doors was covering them in uneven patches of color.

The man who is now no doubt fighting the impulse to come up here and stand in the doorway just to have her within his sights.

Belle will join him not only because she needs to see him (perhaps to make sure he's real and not another dream?), but because she wants to hear what he has to say.

Decades ago he'd promised her a story. It appears that he's finally willing to tell it.

Tucking her freshly washed hair behind her ears Belle takes one last look through the open window at the faint purple clouds swirling on the street below and descends the stairs, her feet bare and her rose printed skirt swishing about her.


	4. Five

 

**Chapter Five: Wood and Honor**

Belle's favorite room inside their home is the attic library. It is not her favorite just because of the books – although the fact that the curse had somehow transferred the thousands of books that had been in the Dark Castle's library into its counterparts' might have something to do with it. Nor is it because of the sunlight constantly streaming in through the four large windows, the soft blue and pink silk cushions resting on the seat of every piece of furniture, or the oil lamps and candles which provide illumination at night in place of electricity. Neither is it because this room has somehow become her private domain unless her permission is granted.

No. It is due to the fact that every piece of furniture, from the tables and chairs, to the couches and the desk to the window seat and the floor to ceiling bookcases are made of wood. Real wood. The kind that is six inches thick and requires nine men to lift. Carved within each piece of that wood are roses, each one the size of her fist and crafted over the span of thirty years by Rumplestltiskins' own hand.

It is not just roses that are depicted within the wood.

Vines climb up the table legs in an elegant swirl, the sharp thorns either molding themselves into the wood or just barley sticking out as they make their way up to the outer edge of the table.

The head of a cat peaks out from the blades of grass etched into the base of the window seat, the small leaves and flowers in half bloom aiding in almost concealing the inquisitive creature from view.

Nesting birds and loping wolves are engraved into the desk, the soft feathers and sharp twigs and gleaming wild eyes appearing as real as the actual creatures themselves as they rest or explore the vines and wide blooms that lead up the sides of the desk.

Dozens upon dozens of frost tipped and dew covered roses envelop the couch and chairs, hundreds of tiny snowflakes and drops of almost shimmering liquid resting upon the delicate petals.

Butterflies, both large and small with their elaborately patterned wings widespread as well as nearly closed are perched lightly upon the roses of the towering bookcases, while mice scamper along the sides of the shelves and over the roses, some of them peeking their heads around the edge of the shelf as if to investigate the leather bound books within.

Most people would never have expected neither the Dark One nor Mr. Gold to have knowledge of such a delicate and perfectly ordinary craft, let alone suspect that he was a master of it.

Due to her time in the dark castle Belle isn't surprised. She herself had seen the carvings, thousands upon thousands of them located seemingly at random all over the castle's woodwork. Some were only scarcely taller than her, others reached the ceiling, while others fit easily into the palm of her hand.

Howling wolves and soaring birds and trees captured in motion and flowing rivers with a unicorn drinking from the water. Drowsy cats curled into a ball, depictions of a single white bean, and busts of people (the one of his son Baelfire, whom she'd only known then as "the boy", had been carved much more than any of the others).

No, this facet of the man that she loves doesn't surprise her.

What did surprise her was the amount of time it had taken him to finish the library, for in their world it hadn't taken him more then an hour or two to complete a carving.

Close to _three decades_ it had taken him in this world. Yes, nearly three decades of seemingly endless daylight hours and countless sleepless nights had been required to craft such objects. Almost thirty years of eye strain, his knee burning anew, splinters and bloody fingers, and the constant cleaning of sawdust and shavings.

When Rumplestiltskin told her why he'd taken on the project it made perfect sense. He had begun the project before the curse came about as a way to hold her in his memory. Upon arriving in this world he had continued it almost immediately as a way to honor her, whom he still loved and thought dead due to his fears and her father's own hand.

Yes, this room is her favorite room in their house. It is where she relaxes and works on bills and quietly reads with Rumplestiltskin engrossed in his own tome beside her. It is where she is surrounded by wooden roses that had been bestowed upon a beloved woman long thought dead.


	5. Six

 

**Chapter Six: Good Enough and Smiles**

If there was one thing Rumplestiltskin had always known, it was that he wasn't good enough.

He hadn't been good enough for his father, a loud and mean drunkard who took pleasure in beating his son with the deformed leg and whose scornful laughter at the resulting fearful demeanor still rang in his ears centuries latter.

His father's favorite spot to land his fist was on his leg, directly upon the slightly weakened muscle which had been with him since birth and normally caused no more then a slight limp.

When that spot was struck with a fist or a heavy boot came swinging toward it too fast to dodge?

The agony that rocketed up the deformed limb left the child in a heap on the dirt floor, screaming even as vomit forced itself out his mouth and unable to attempt even the slightest defensive gesture as more blows fell like hail on his body. The bruises that resulted upon the limb, to say nothing of the rest of his skin, were horrid. Huge deep purple marks that expanded the length of his leg and felt as they went directly into the bone as pain became the dominant sensation, bruises that left him unable to walk for days and managing to hobble with support from a staff after weeks had passed.

The hatful words his father had spoken upon seeing the result of his blows and noticing his sons tears, the names that were spoken and the jokes that were uttered still have the ability to cut Rumplestiltskin to the core even though so many years have passed.

((((((((((((((((((((((((

That same timid boy hadn't been enough for his mother, a life hardened woman whom had developed a quiet and dutiful persona due to the constant bruises, split lips, and broken bones which matched those of her son.

Whom loathed it when her husband demanded of her her wifely duties, sometimes right there on the floor of their barn with her husband tightly gripping the indigo marks on his wife's hips while he pounded into her body and she bit her lip to muffle her screams. That same type of wifely duties which Rumplestiltskin knew he had been the result of and is what caused his mother to look at him with anger and disgust warring with a faint bit of love. The past and present duties which caused her to take her rage out on the spinning wheel and the sheep and the neighbors as well as occasionally the back of her child's head.

It wasn't that he was the target of his mother's rage that hurt Rumplestiltskin. Not to a great or lasting extent, at least. Treatment such as that had become normal for the child, for he had never known any other at his mothers' hands. Hugs, kisses, a pat on the shoulder, or her hand holding his were not for Rumplestiltskin. Only cold eyes and a palm colliding sharply with the back of his head. He expected for his mother to treat him thus, for she'd always had. It was his normal, sadly enough.

Nor was his hurt due to the fact that she had only once stepped in to take a beating in his place, the day which his father had been about to demand of his son the same duties which were required of his wife. By the time his father's rage had calmed and the drink made him sleep in the middle of the floor his mother was more bruises then skin with her clothing laying in tatters about her and legs that wouldn't support her.

No. That had not hurt her son. Even as a small child he knew what his mother endured and was also aware that as bad as his own beatings were his mothers were far worse. Especially when anger in addition to the drink his father guzzled like water was driving his fists.

There were no laws against a mans' treatment of his wife and child – his property that he was able to treat as he saw fit – it was true, but when bruises were seen on a child such as he people tended to rally together to protect said child. At least up to the point of removing the child from their home, of course. It was hard enough to feed their own without adding an extra mouth. Unfair dealings, gang beatings, livestock let loose, or a knife pressed against a throat outside a stall were common enough, however, in a case such as his.

When the bruises or cracked ribs appeared on a married woman? That was another story. Nothing was said, no threats were made, nobody banned together, and if ill feelings existed they were kept quiet. People pretended not to notice. It wasn't their concern how a man exercised his right to treat his wife, and it was widely assumed that when a wife was badly used it was because she had done something to warrant it. The thought that the woman was innocent would never have occurred to them. Not even to the ill treated woman herself, sometimes. She would believe just as her neighbors did.

Even the male relatives of the woman could do nothing no matter if they agreed with the ill treatment or not. It was not their place, for the woman no longer lived under their roof. They did not own her anymore and had no say in how her husband chose to deal with her. Rumplestiltskin had noticed however, that an ill treated woman with angry male relations often had their husbands mysteriously vanish sooner or later.

His mother had no male relatives.

No one spoke for her.

No one attempted to protect her or protest her treatment.

No one cared except her son, and Rumplestiltskin had even less say in the matter then she did.

So it was not that his mother only shielded him from his father's blows once and had almost got killed for it was what hurt Rumplestiltskin.

The fact that three weeks latter she had taken her own life, leaving him to face his father's rage and fists by himself? That he hadn't been enough for his mother to stay, to run away and take him with her?

That was what hurt.

What still hurts.

((((((((((((((((((((((((

The fact that he was not enough for his wife had never truly bothered Rumplestiltskin. His marriage to Nora had been one of convience, with he being the owner of livestock whose profits were desired by his her father and her family residing on land that Rumplestiltskin required to graze his sheep.

He had cared for his wife somewhat, the feeling developing in what he could only assume was a natural manner after six years of marriage. He cared weather or not she was upset, worried when she was ill or hurt, and gave her his share of the food when they were running particularly low even though his stomach ached with hunger. He never once raised his fist to her, held conversations with her everyday, and made new shoes for her on her birthdays. Rumplestiltskin cared for his wife in little ways, it was true. He cared about Nora because she was a human being as well as his wife and the person that he naturally spent the most time with.

Nora cared about him because he was a person, but other then that Rumplestiltskin knew that she barley tolerated him, couldn't bare to look at him some days, in fact. He didn't know why, and Nora wasn't willing to share.

When it came to their sexual life their encounters were few and far between. Perhaps it was the shared lack of feelings or desire or simply because of their exhausting lifestyle was what caused it to be so. Regardless of the reason Rumplestiltskin was never unfaithful to his wife. He made a promise before the village pastor and he intended to keep it. As for Nora… perhaps it would have bothered him if she'd been unfaithful with another man, but seeing as she sought the company of the millers wife it wasn't that big of deal.

It was the war that completely changed Nora's outlook. The war in which peasants were dragged from their homes to fight in a war against ogres. To battle vicious creatures ten feet tall with skin thicker then leather and who were more bloodthirsty then a hellhound. Creatures that to come against meant a death sentence for even the most skilled and brave of men, to say nothing of the peasants who were fighting for a cause which held no concern for them and to which none of them felt the smallest once of loyalty. They fought because the king ordered it, because their families would be killed if they did not comply.

Rumplestiltskin fought in the war, bad leg and all. He tried to be brave and stand with his comrades as mass after mass of them were slaughtered and crushed to pulp before his eyes, as he wadded waist deep through their blood and witnessed the enemy eating the flesh from their bones (some of whom were still alive). Yes, he attempted to be brave, but if there was one thing that Rumplestiltskin knew he was it was a coward. That was never more obvious then the day that more then half of their people lay dead and thousands of ogres were charging them from the hill above. The last threads of his courage fled and he'd run. He'd run as fast as he could and made it as far as the edge of the battlefield before a stray club crashed into his bad leg, the pain knocking him out in an instant. Rumplestiltskin woke to find himself covered in blood and gore and fire around him and smoke from burning corpses filling the air. His shattered leg white hot with pain he'd continued to crawl as best he could over the bodies blocking his path before lapsing into darkness once more.

Somehow Rumplestiltskin had made it home (how he isn't sure, it's all a blur), and by the time he did his leg was healed but now broken beyond repair and the news of his running and those whom had been lost because of it had reached his village.

Nora hated him after that for he'd taken one of the few positive emotions she had held for him – respect – and destroyed it.

Now she looked at him with cold eyes, spoke only when necessary, ignored him when he hobbled about on his damaged leg even when he couldn't move for the pain, and only allowed him to have her body twice after which each time she'd wash herself as if he carried the plague.

Rumplestiltskin didn't blame her, not in the least despite the stab of pain her treatment caused. Another man might have, but when treatment such as that has been ongoing for so many years it becomes normal and it dose not occur for the person that is the focus of said treatment to expect anything less. Rumplestiltskin was such a man. He didn't expect anything less from Nora, nor did he deserve it, he felt.

For who in their right mind would want to be married to him?

The dirt poor spinner with the lame leg made into a twisted lump of useless flesh by an ogres' club.

The man whom was a coward who leaned away from the one speaking to him and who _could not_ meet their eyes.

The villager who ran from war and left his comrades to die and was a pariah who was the rightful object of his neighbors' rage.

So it was not he was not good enough for Nora that bothered him, not when he'd never been so.

It was that six months after their son was born Nora killed herself rather then stay married to him, rather than bare the sight of her husband for the time it would take to say goodbye as she walked out the door is what angered Rumplestiltskin.

It was one thing for her not to wish to be his wife, but to abandon innocent and helpless little Baelfire the same way that _his_ mother had abandoned him? That was something he could not forgive. His boy, however, would never know just how unwanted he was by his mother, how little Nora had cared for her own son.

He gave his word.

He kept it.

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Rumplestiltskin had tried to be good enough for Bae. He also knows that he didn't succeed.

It hadn't been only because they could barely grow enough to feed their few sheep as well themselves, or that their profits from the wool was just enough for a loaf of stale bread on the rickety table and a small fire in the grate.

The fact that despite a few friends his son knew what it was like to be a scapegoat for his fathers' past cowardice and endure unjustified bruises at the villagers' hands, while Rumplestiltskin burned with anger and shame while being unable to protect his boy was a large factor in it, but not the main reason. It was not the main reason even as day after day, year after year passed and Bae came home with bruises on his face, split lips and skinned knees and muddy clothes that he always tried to pass off as the result of roughhousing the anger inside Rumplestiltskin grew. It grew for the boys' father recognized those wounds, could make out the shadows of fingerprints and the tread of a boot and knew from personal experience that a broken nose of that severity came from being hurled face first against the ground.

The villagers were taking their anger at him out on his son, and Rumplestiltskin could do nothing to prevent it.

For that shame joined the anger inside him, and for the first time he understood why his mother had harmed the sheep and been cruel to the neighbors.

It was because when you are angry, when you are burning with shame and resentment that you cannot voice… when you hurt…. you want to make someone else hurt to.

_You_ want to be the one doing the hurting, the one causing pain and fear because if you are then you are not the recipient.

True, when you did that the tables turned and it was you who was the wrongdoer, but that was better then being hurt, better then having that feeling twisting your gut and spreading like fire through your body.

_Anything_ was better then that.

No, that was not the main reason, surprisingly enough.

It had not been because he came to resent his son, the added responsibility and greater poverty that came with having another mouth to feed. Rumplestiltskin had fallen in love with Bae them moment he realized Nora was carrying him, from the first squalling cry Bae had owned his father down to his last breath, and by the time the soldiers came the love for his son had filled every last part of his being. He would have performed that feaitly a thousand times over if it would have garnitured Bae's safety.

Rumplestiltskin knows that he did not fail his son because Bae thought less of him for his leg or his lack of bravery. His son had looked at him with expressions of love, pride, and loyalty that reached to depths most people could not comprehend. He thought he could hang the moon, his boy. Thought he could vanquish every monster from underneath the bed and was the greatest man to ever walk the earth. Even as he grew and realized that his father couldn't protect him from the monsters that existed in human form, that he couldn't do _anything_ , and learned the truth from Hordor that didn't change. It didn't falter even when he slaughtered those soldiers in front of his son and became the most feared man in the village. Amazing, that.

Rumplestiltskin failed his son because with the acquisition of Zosos' power he had been unable to prevent his anger at his son's thirteen years of maltreatment from coming forth. From turning those whom had harmed Bae the most into slimly slugs that were easily crushed beneath his boot and striking fear into the hearts of others whom were only suspected of doing slightly less.

He had let his Baelfire down because he had allowed his fear that he would be unable to protect him consume him. It was what drove him to seek more power, crave fear rather then respect, and even kill their mute maid because there was the slightest chance that she had overheard them speaking of the dagger.

He wasn't good enough because the one thing that Bae wanted out of anything that could have been his, all he wished for was his father. Rumplestiltskin had promised that if Baelfire found a way then his father was what he would have.

He struck a deal.

He broke it.

The thing was he had _never ever_ meant to. He had never intended to allow Baes' hand to be pulled from his, to sink that blade into the ground and choose cowardice and power over his son.

_Never._

He'd done it anyway.

Intent was meaningless.

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Rumplestiltskin is aware that he hadn't been good enough for Belle, that first time around. As with Bae he allowed his own fears to rule him. He'd made himself believe, however briefly, that Belle was in league with Regina and wanted his curse broken, desired his powers gone for it would make him as lame and weak and powerless as he'd once been.

As he heard those words issuing from Belles' lips, as he screamed at Regina through his mirror and allowed his anger and hurt to overrule his common sense he had truly thought that Belle had been toying with him the entire time. That every touch, every smile and laugh, every kind word and quiet hours spent together, every faint flame of hope that burned within him and each spark of light that had shone in her eyes had been a fabrication.

For only one person had loved him as human and he had proven himself unworthy of it. Now no one could ever, ever love him. It was impossible. Not the monster he was and certainly never the man he would become.

Even after he'd calmed down and realized the truth he wasn't enough for her once again. For instead of reveling what Regina meant to do to him, instead of telling her of his son and why his curse and thus his powers were so vital (she would understand, he knew), he lied.

He lied because he was afraid.

He was afraid that Belle's love for him would fade in time as his love for her would not.

He was afraid that Regina would seek to use Belle against him, that she would try and trick her or secede in harming her all because she mattered to him.

He was afraid that if Belle remained he would not be able to prevent himself from kissing her, causing his son to be lost to him forever.

He was not good enough because he lied and allowed her to go.

He was not enough because he believed Regina's' lie.

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Perhaps that was why he worked so hard at being the Dark One as well as Mr. Gold. Why he liked to be feared and play tricks, why he was so strict about the rent and made sure everybody knew his name. Why it didn't bother him when he became the boogie man that ate children, why he ensured people crossed the street to avoid him and why all deals were final.

For he hadn't been enough for a drunk or a rape victim nor a spouse that hated him. He wasn't worthy enough for the only two whom had been able to see inside him nor for the Blue Fairy to help him and he'd never even been that great of a spinner.

He hadn't been enough for any of that, but perhaps if he could be good enough at just this _one_ thing….

If he could secede at being a despised villain as well as a devious pawn broker….

If he could play both roles and do every necessary deed to the best of his ability and actually _accomplish_ it…

If he could best Regina and find his son…

If he could have this one thing..

Then maybe he'd be good enough for…. something.

Something was better then nothing.

Which was all he'd ever been good for.

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Now, as he watches Belle folding laundry in the kitchen of his god awful pink house, three months after a kiss from a mother to her child caused the curse to splinter about them. He is still unable to completely believe she's alive and here and that she _wants him_ , and he thinks that just maybe he might be enough this time.

He might be enough because he's learning to stifle that voice inside of him that whispers from the origins of raised fists and eyes filled more with disgust then love, a spouse that couldn't stand the sight of him and "monster" within his thoughts mingling with memories of a broken deal.

A voice that whispers "Not good enough."

For even if the people around him - Cinderella, Emma, Charming, Gepetto or Granny and thousands of others – if they never see him as anything more then a monster Rumplestiltskin knows that one woman sees differently.

So he watches her, this woman standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing a green dress and the sunlight spilling onto the thick mane of chocolate curls reaching almost to her waist.

This soul deep beautiful woman who smells of roses and falls asleep with a book in her lap, who forgave him for casting her out and almost killing her father, who isn't afraid to tell him off in public while ignoring others terrified expressions and doesn't like it when doors are shut.

This amazing woman who has promised to help him find his son and who will bury her face in the bouquet of pink and white roses in the living room, her joyful smile as she inhales their sent breaking his heart for she has been denied something as simple as _flowers_ for so long.

This woman that loves him, despite everything.

Perhaps by the time they find his son -who smells like wood-smoke, he suddenly remembers – he will be good enough for Balefires' forgiveness and to hear "Papa" from his son's mouth once again.

Rumplestiltskin looks forward to that day. The day that the scents wood-smoke and roses intermingle and he will know that he is worthy of it.

Worthy of them.

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Nine months latter, when before him and Belle appears a glowing green vortex resembling a tornado more then anything else – a vortex that he would know anywhere and that has haunted his dreams and waking hours for centuries - and Baelfire tumbles out of it, still a boy of fourteen with chestnut hair falling into his coffee hued eyes and clothes that of a peasant and expression of terror and disbelief on his face….

When Rumplestiltskin falls to his knees before his son and sobs uncontrollably as he clutches his beautiful boy and strokes his face and begs forgiveness ….

When Baelfire nearly strangles him with the strength of his own embrace and cries tears in response to his fathers' distress and calls him Papa and says he knew that his father wouldn't break their deal….

When he revels that he'd let Baelfire go and what he'd become and all the horrible things he'd willingly done to get here and Baelfire looks at him without scorn, fear, anger, or betrayal in his eyes - everything that Rumplestiltskin thought would be there and that would have been far less then what he knew he deserved - and says that he had followed him and that's enough…

When Rumplestiltskin looks over at Belle crouched on the ground with tears falling from her eyes and a smile on her face….

When he realizes that he can smell roses and wood-smoke and the ones who are the source are looking at him with love in their eyes and it's not a hopeless dream or his imagination….

He knows without a doubt that he is worthy of it.

Of this.

Of them.

 


	6. Seven

 

**Chapter Seven: Cards**

This is a new experience for Rumplestiltskin, not that he would ever admit to having anything less then a firm grasp on any subject of course. It is not that he is unfamiliar with the procedure itself. He couldn't be, not after spending three and a half decades in this world and observing hundreds of people go about it. It is simply that he has never done it before.

Card shopping.

To be more clear, card shopping for Belle because for the past three days he's been banished to the spare bedroom and has absolutely no idea _why_.

So here he stands in this blasted aisle of the drug store staring at the cards on display.

Which one should he get her? What one is he _supposed_ to get, anyway?

That entirely brown one?

Maybe that one, with the dog and duck staring at each other?

The one with blue strips or yellow dots?

That absolutely stupid one with the cartoon rabbit?

Perhaps the heart shaped one? _Isn't that meant to convoy love or pitiful groveling or something?_

The dancing frogs?

He finally settles on a white one with a raised rose outlined in black in the center. It's simple, free of stupid cartoon animals, and doesn't appear to be intended for a holiday that he'd never fully seen the point of.

Perhaps the gesture will be enough for Belle to forgive him for…. whatever it is that he's done.

Needless to say Belle is touched by the card and places it upright on the top of her dresser for safekeeping, but she has already forgotten whatever wrong he's committed and has been wondering why he hasn't been sleeping in their bed the past few days.

Instead of reminding her of pervious ire Rumplestiltskin only says that he's been having trouble sleeping because of his knee and hadn't wanted to wake her by continually tossing about and entering and leaving the bed.

He sleeps next to her that night, one arm around her waist and her hand gripping his, brown ringlets tickling his nose and her back pressed against his front.

He still has no idea what he did wrong, but he knows that he did this _right_.


	7. Eight

 

**Chapter Eight: Focus**

If asked to identify one thing that roses meant to Belle, Rumplestiltskin would answer that they provided her with focus.

It had been the roses of her dress that she had stared at as she told him, just hours after he had returned magic to Storybrooke, what had happened to her after she'd left his castle. How Regina had captured her as she was leaving a Tavern to return to him, the dungeon she'd been placed in as well as the pain she had endured, and how through it all she had managed not to scream his name by focusing on a rose someone before her had etched into the stone.

Occasionally, when the two sets of memories that Belle now possessed would combine in head, each one telling her different things and making her realize anew how long it had been since she'd really been outdoors or interacted with people she'd become... afraid was the perhaps the term that fit best.

Afraid to shut the doors, for fear that they'd never open.

Afraid step outside and feel the wind and the warmth of the sun on her face or the tickle of the grass against her feet. The stimulation was too much after three decades of nothing but dimness, agony, and cold water that closed over her head.

Afraid to contradict a statement, for doing so had never been permitted. Daring to do so had brought looks of pity, privileges revoked, more time spent locked up for "difficult behavior", and more injections if the nurses happened to be in a bad mood– blind witches and kelpies and a troll or two, he's certain of it - .

Remind him why killing people is frowned upon, would you?

She was startled by the shrill whistle of the tea kettle, the loudest noise she'd heard in years. Except for the screams. Those had been louder.

Afraid of a room bathed in darkness, for half of her life had been spent in darkness. Darkness that never seemed to end, to go on forever and ever. She never wanted to go back. She never would, not if he had any say in it.

Belle was even afraid of herself at times, it seemed. Why? Perhaps because for all those years she had been told she was crazy, that she was dangerous and delusional and needed to be locked away in isolation. Perhaps because by the time Jefferson had come she had stared to believe it, if only a little. If that's not the reason? He isn't sure he wants to know what it is.

All of Belles' new fears can be traced back to him, he is certain of it.

His fault, he knows.

_I'm sorry, so, so sorry._

_I thought you were gone. I thought…._

_Please, forgive me._

She was not afraid of people, exactly. They made her more nervous then anything else. Caused her to stutter or avoid their eyes, shy away and fidget, become quiet and sometimes emotionless.

They got too close, talked too loud or too much, wore colors that were too bright and although she knew that they were trying to be nice by bringing her baked goods it was too much food too fast.

The only time that Belle was _afraid_ was when they moved too quickly, when they touched her before she noticed the upcoming contact.

When she was touched at all, sometimes.

_There's nothing to forgive._

_Stop blaming yourself._

_You couldn't have known. I'm the one who didn't call for you, remember?_

_Seriously, Rumplestiltskin. I'm fi -….. No. No I'm not fine. I'll be alright soon enough, though._

Belle didn't have a problem with touching others herself, but when they touched her…. it was the hands, he came to learn.

Hands brought hurt. Hands pinched, twisted, grabbed and bruised, made red marks and put liquid that caused pain inside of her. Hands shoved and released purple light that flayed nerves, held her under ice cold water and locked the doors.

Belle knew that these hands wouldn't do that, wouldn't seek to harm her and take joy from her suffering.

It wasn't much help.

Her father, Henry Mills, the former mailman, the wolf girl and the cricket man – all of them and more were the cause of the nervousness or fear.

Everyone expect him, and that was only most of the time. Belle had her moments around him, too.

_It's still my fault, dearie._

" _Fine" and "soon enough" aren't quick enough, you know._

When Belle felt this way, Rumplestiltskin would often notice that she seemed to trace something on her palm, using the finger of her opposite hand as a pen. The tracing seemed to calm her, help her pay attention and realize that she was safe here, with these people. It wasn't until sometime latter that he realized that she was tracing a rose.

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

The wooden roses of her library were what held her attention when sleep wouldn't come. When dreams of a black cell and a locked room were waiting for her.

Belle would lay next to him on her couch and trace them with her finger, following the dips and curves and swirls of each petal until her eyelids grew heavy and she nestled her body against his, her hand falling away from the false flower.

_It's alright, Belle._

_I'm here. I'm here and I'll protect you._

_Forever._

_Even when you don't need it, don't want it. You'll have it anyway._

_Sleep now._

Unknown to them, it was at that time that a war had begun to simmer on the horizon, Regina collecting magic and boiling with hatred while the dark creatures and evil people of this land traveled to join her ranks.

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Now, a year and a half into that war Rumplestiltskin stands in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Belle.

She is standing next to the bed, her arms folded underneath her breasts and legs almost touching the blue comforter as she softly drum her fingers on her elbows. She is staring blankly at the lamp on the bedside table, the stained glass of the roses within the shade glowing like rubies and sending crimson light across her face.

Belle is clearly thinking very hard about something. What that topic may be he doesn't have a clue.

It could be a thousand things related to this war or a thousand things that have no connection at all.

If he knew the direction her thoughts were heading towards it may cause him to cross the room and hold her to him, his arms wrapped around her body and his nose buried in her hair, her head just reaching his collarbone as she wraps her arms around him in return.

_It's alright, dearie._

_No it's not. You know it and so do I, and don't tell me to stop thinking about because you know that I can't._

_I know, Belle. I know._

Perhaps he would smile upon knowing her thoughts, relived that she can think of something other their present situation even as she would turn to face him, stars sparkling in her eyes and laughter rising from her throat.

_Now how on earth would you manage to do that?_

_Why with your help, of course. Just wriggle you fingers and it's done. Poof._

_You do know that I'm not Santa Clause or the Easter Rabbit, don't you dear?_

… _. So? Come on. Please?_

… _. :sigh: Alright, alright._

Hearing her thoughts is something Rumplestiltskin cannot do of course despite the return of his magic, for although it is not cursed any longer it is unpredictable due to this land in which they reside and not quite the same as it once was.

Belle will share her thoughts when she is ready, and for now he allows her to think and stare at the lamp, the roses aiding in her focus as they so often do.


	8. Nine

**Chapter Nine: Favor Repaid and Gift Given**

Three years after Emma Swan broke the curse, on her 28th birthday, Belle receives a journal from Rumplestiltskin. It's truly a beautiful book, the binding of white leather and cream hued pages making it appear perfectly ordinary at first glance. Upon second glance, however, it's obvious that this is no book that was found gathering dust in some corner of his shop.

On the top of each page, running along its length, are roses.

The roses are not simple inken drawings.

They are of gemstone, finer then the paper upon which they rest and as durable as the leather in which they are incased. Each page gleams a different hue: topaz, mossy emerald, ebony, clear glittering rainbow, blood red, nearly white jade, violet, cerulean, and on and on with the same shade never once repeating itself.

Her lover, pleased with her soft gasp off awe upon seeing the masterpiece within the pages, kisses her lips and mummers something about a flying carpet that had been recently cleared of the favor to which it had been bound.

In their bed that night Belle is leaning back against the pillows, the journal laid open in her lap and her pen marking the first pages with her elegant black scrawl. Rumplestiltskin is asleep beside her, his forehead resting against her hip, his breathing deep and even as Belle's unoccupied hand strokes the soft dark hair reaching almost to his nape, and one arm is firmly planted across her thighs.

The tip of his middle finger is just barley touching one of the reddish-brown roses on Belle's page.


	9. Ten

**Chapter Ten: Of Daggers, Arrows, and Belonging**

Rumplestiltskin has personally fashioned the weapons that are carried by his son as well as his love.

In comparison to the weapons carried by the others they are unique.

They are unique not because of the magical properties they hold. In that aspect they are the same as all of the weapons within their boarders. Magic that increases the rate of healing, acts as a shield against certain types of spells, as well as a little something extra that allows the wielder for whom the weapon has been fashioned to find their way home are all embedded within their weapons just as the all rest.

What is unique about them is the craftsmanship. Each of them carry his symbols, symbols that he has made sure are known to all who are loyal to Regina.

A phoenix and a rose.

The symbols are not overly large, not enough to act as impairments in battle at any rate.

They are present on the handle of their sword and dagger, the phoenix's claws gripping the cross guard just before the blade while the tail and body make up the grip, the wings curving outward to provide handles along the grip. The wings lead to the pommel, which is a rose held within the mouth of the phoenix.

The symbols are present on their arrows as well, just as simple but equally as apparent. Small roses are carved into the shaft of their arrows, a phoenix winding its' way between them.

Rumplestiltskin has done this to ensure that if either of them are captured in battle the enemy will know whom they belong to. They will know that the woman with fierce blue eyes and the child with shaggy dark hair are the property of the Dark One, and that if they harm them or are the ones to deliver their death the he will come.

He will come and rain destruction down upon them, shedding blood and shattering skulls and burning homes and tearing them limb from limb.

The enemy will see his symbols and will know that if they deliver them to Regina that they might as well sever their own head because they will find no mercy at his hands, no release from the agony that he will pour onto them in wave after wave until they go mad.

If Regina is the one to shed their blood, torture their mind, or lock them away?

Then the demon within him, the dormant soul of the curse that once possessed him will rise up. It will hunt her down and Regina had better run as far and as fast as she can because when the demon catches her it will sink its claws in. It will set her on fire and drain the blood from her body and mangle and destroy and fill her soul with the blackest of all magic. It will relish in her screams. Feast upon her black soul and become drunk on her crimson liquid. The pleading issuing from her lips will further enrage it while at the same time being music to its' ears.

Yes. They and she will be destroyed because Belle and Baelfire belong to all aspects of him.

They belong to the demon, the dark being who would love to gorge on death and bathe in blood and dark magic, that knows love only in terms of possession and what is _not_ spilt rather then what _is_. The demon that he felt in full strength the day that he killed the ones trying to take his son and whom he felt echoes of the night that he lost his child due to his own cowardice and as he lunged at that wretched fairy with his dagger in hand. The demon that whom he has secretly feared and whom he has kept under lock and key deep within himself for so long and yet would not fight if the harm or death of the ones who own him come to pass.

They are the property of Rumplestiltskin, the cowardly and lame spinner whom didn't posses money nor power and yet was willing to do anything to save his son. The man who would have allowed Belle (had it been possible for her to have been present) to leave without a word of protest regardless of whether his heart was breaking.

The Dark One owned them. The being that he became and whose magic first drove away his Baelfire, the monster whom offered you aid and yet could ask for something just short of your soul in return. The beast that within time he came to believe himself to be and showed without hesitation to the world. The very same monster whom a bookworm of a woman dressed in blue was able to see into the innermost soul of…. and fell in love with what she discovered there. The creature that kept his son's clothes throughout the centuries, kept them in a chest in a dark room away from light, dust, and moths so as to preserve as long as possible one of the few physical reminders of the boy. The monster that was determined to create the curse that would allow him to follow his son, even though doing so may have been his finial damnation. The monster that had allowed the woman he loved to leave and never return, even though the mere thought caused his gut to churn and the demon to stir, and in whose absence felt as if the air had been stolen from his lungs. The very same monster that would allow Belle and Baelfire to leave now, if they so choose, even though by doing so it would feel as if the soul had been wrenched from his body.

Mr. Gold possesses them. The wealthy pawn shop owner whom owned the town and demanded payment from the good residents, whom procured a desired object or overlooked a misconduct in exchange for something resulting in personal gain or the promise of an unwanted child. The man whom he pretended to be for almost three decades all the while retaining the memories of that other world, the other life, and the memories of those whom held his heart as well as the one royal woman whom was capable of destroying him should he falter. The persona he adopted, an individual who was calm, courteous, cunning, and for all of the appearance of being nonthreatening was the most feared man within the town for when his temper was unleashed echoes of _them_ would bleed through. The person that would not hesitate to kill – _lie, be imprisoned, kidnap an innocent woman, break a deal, die in their place_ \- in order to protect the boy and woman with near matching chocolate hair. The individual whom would have put a bullet right between Regina's cold black eyes and relished in the blood and gore that would have painted his suit because she _had locked his Belle away!_

The one whom he is now, not a monster nor coward but neither is he classified as a saint or _brave_ in the traditional sense of the word. The person that lives in the midst of this war fighting alongside Snow White while wielding non cursed magic with his True Love drinking tea from across the kitchen table. The man that still prefers the subtler points of a deal, remains one of the most feared people in existence and yet has acquired a few friends as well as the trust of his colleges, and the father that feels pride as others look to his son for advice…. an individual with the name of Rumplestiltskin but with aspects of all the rest blending together to create someone (something?) new and all the better for it?

Baelfire and Belle belong to that aspect as well.

So Rumplestiltskin marks their weapons with his symbols in an effort to protect them when neither the friends they have earned, the skills they posses, nor he himself is able.

Anyone meaning them harm will see that phoenix and the rose and will know that they'd better think twice about letting their arrow fly or their blade to cleave.

Heaven and hell have mercy on them if they do.

For he will have none.


	10. Eleven

**Chapter Eleven: Rainbows**

In the midst of the war that raged around them the one thing that Belle had been determined to do was get an education. She wanted this even though time had ceased almost immediately after magic was restored to Storybrooke four decades ago and blood and death surrounds them.

Belle needed this even though their troops took heavy losses and never seemed to fall enough of The Queen's army, even though each night she woke to screams echoing in the dark and the broken corpses of the Blue Fairy, Grumpy, and Nova had been dumped just outside their boarders three days previously.

She craves one although she's exhausted from studying the battle plans and treating wounds that magic can't heal, from burying their dead and helping to maintain their weapons, and from practicing her own fencing and archery until her muscles shake and her vision begins to blur.

So Belle studies throughout all that.

Rumplestiltskin brings her tea in her library where she reads her texts after being relived at the infirmary, blood still staining her clothes and the smell of burnt skin and badly used magic clinging to her hair.

She takes notes and highlights passages and writes useless papers until her fingers can't move before crawling into bed beside her love, falling asleep almost before his arms tighten about her and only after the image of Red's bloodstained and arrow impaled wolf form has faded from her mind.

Tests are taken, lab hours are met, and practical knowdegle is put to use in between the True Love marriages of Pinocchio to Emma and Red to Jiminy, her lover prying the book from her hands and making her take a few hours off or carrying her to bed and pressing a kiss to her forehead after she's fallen asleep over her studies once again, the battle from which six of her friends do not return, and a magical attack that leaves the recently orphaned Hansel and Gretel dead and Belle sick with worry as Rumplestiltskin is wracked with pain as his magic goes haywire.

The day that she earns her degree as an marine biologist eight years and countless more bodies latter Rumplestiltskin gives her a paperweight, a heavy crystal rose the size of her palm.

Belle gasped in delight as the millions of small facets on the wide and obviously carefully handcrafted petals catch the rays from the sun, causing hundreds of minuscule rainbows to dance around the kitchen.

Belle smiles in childlike glee and rotates her gift, allowing the pattern of the colorful light to shift direction, the colors now spilling onto the most feared man in Storybrooke. The man who once made deals for children, owns a semi magical Pawn Shop, whom is an enemy of The Queens' and is vital to winning this war, is the creator of the darkest curse to ever exist (supposedly), and whom has no qualms about beating someone almost to death because he'd thought she had suffered harm from their hands.

The man whom now has rainbows flickering on the deep green silk of his tie and reflecting off the golden handle of his cane laying in the corner and is gazing at her with pride, delight, respect, and a hundred more emotions that Belle doesn't even try to categorize.

Belle smiles at him, knowing that her azure eyes are mirroring what are present within his own darker orbs before dropping her gaze to her rainbow rose once more.


	11. Tweleve

**Chapter Twelve: Night, Comfort, and Teacups**

The night sky is pitch black by the time Rumplestiltskin staggers in the front door, his magic automatically registering Bae asleep upstairs and Belle moving about down the hall even as he continues onward, feeling as if he is half blind. As he enters the kitchen he causes the thick beeswax candles mounted upon the wall and hanging from the ceiling to enflame, bathing the room in golden light.

He only half notices.

The chair at the table is cold and hard as he sinks into it, but Rumplestiltskin dose not care. He exhales shakily and buries his face in his hands for a few moments before roughly pushing his lank, sweat soaked hair back from his face, residual fear still churning in his gut.

For the past twelve hours he had been fighting to save the life of Jiminy, his friend of the past five decades. Apparently the foolish imbecile had run headlong into the battle armed with _nothing_ when he saw a sword flying at the unprotected back of Peter Pan, leaping in front of the blade and getting impaled in the side. As if that wasn't enough apparently the sword had been infused with magic that increased the severity of the wound as well as prevented any magic with the intention of healing the wound to be effective.

Rumplestiltskin felt a shiver run down his spine as the recent image of his blood soaked friend invaded his mind, recalling the sight of four gore spattered doctors as they fought to repair the internal damage, the sensation of an almost pain as he desperately strained his magic to counteract that of the cursed sword, and the sound of soft growls issuing out of Red's human throat as she moved restlessly behind him.

Feeling a pair of hands on his shoulders he lifts his head from his hands but otherwise does not move, not even when lips press softly against the skin behind his ear. The hands leave his shoulders and moments latter Belle comes around the table, sitting in the chair opposite him.

Her eyes are tired, he notes, her skin paler then normal and her hair hangs in damp curls about her face. He knows that she has not slept properly, not since the ambush on the far northern corner of their grounds. The ambush that Belle fought in and the one in which she witnessed the former Prince Thomas burned alive in front of her.

Had that really only been 36 hours ago? It feels like much longer.

Reaching across the table Belle takes his hand within hers. They are a study of contracts, their hands. His are large, with palms large and wide enough to cradle her cheek and thickly calloused fingers that easily reach that spot just above her wrist and entangle in the hair at her temple. Belles' hands are of medium size, not large but not what one would deem as dainty either. Her palms are like her hands: neither large nor small and just wide enough to enfold his shoulders, while her fingers are slim with a hidden strength in addition to the slightest hint of calluses and barely reach past his second knuckle and rest at the corner of his eyes. They fit together regardless.

Rumplestiltskin studies Belle, feeling somewhat calmer as he takes in her in, noticing her garments for the first time as he does so.

She has changed clothes, removed her scorched and crimson stained leather garments and donned a dress, the sleeveless one that reaches knee high and is white with red hearts. The dress she always wears when she is actively trying to think of something happy rather then dwell on something horrific.

He doubts it's working, this time.

He knows it's not when his eyes catch sight of the burn mark on her upper arm. It is bright red and painful looking and Rumplestiltskin knows if her attempts at not dwelling had been successful she would have healed the burn instead of allowing it to remain.

As with past, similar occasions when she has allowed an injury to mar her skin there are things Rumplestiltskin does and does not do.

He dose not allow the purple glow of his magic to rise from his palm before meeting her eyes questioningly, for he knows that she will cast her eyes downward and shake her head.

 _No. Not yet. Please. It's too soon after… just not yet_. _Later, I promise._

He dose not allow himself to worry, for he trusts her judgment and knows that if the pain is too much she will take a potion to relive it or seek medical attention if necessary. He knows that even if enough time passes for the injury to scar she will ask him to heal it. Eventually.

What he does do is rub her palm with his thumb, seeking to comfort her even as he leans forward, asking her without words if there is anything he can do right now that will be of help. At this Belles' mouth will either form into a slight smile or remain in a set line, the "yes" or "no" clearly convoyed and heard despite the wordless exchange.

This Rumplestiltskin has done before, and this he does now, leaning forward and silently asking and accepting the straight line of Belle's lips.

There is nothing that he can do right now, at this moment in time.

She doesn't want him to prepare tea or hold her against him. She doesn't want him to try to engage her in conversation or make love, accompany her when she goes out with friends, go for a run alongside her nor join her in a workout, attend a show at the theater or a book reading at the library, or even remain silent as she unloads her feelings onto the gym's punching bag.

The only thing that he can do now is be with her. It is enough.

Latter there is very little that he can do. Very little that will be of great help, at any rate.

There is nothing he can do except buy her new books and make sure sunlight pours in through the windows. He can see that they and their son spend time together that does not involve weapons, do the laundry and go on dates, and enjoy those quiet domestic scenes that people seem to take for granted. Perhaps he will finally allow her to purchase a cat or a miniature pig for a pet.

Other then that there are few things he can do besides hold her when the memories invade her sleeping mind, causing her to cry out, shake, or jolt upright with wild wide open eyes that see him and at the same time do not. That is what is the most helpful to Belle, he has come to learn.

Then Belle is the one leaning forward as her thumb rubs his palm, asking the same question of him as she has done countless times before, oblivious to the fact that her gestures are an exact mirror of his.

She knows about Jiminy, Rumplestiltskin realizes. Belle knows what happened, where he has been all this time, and is aware of the fear that had gripped him as his friend had lain for hours suspended on the edge of death.

The image of how he had left his friend this night comes to the forefront of his mind. The ginger haired man bone and laying on the bed, pale and covered in bandages but alive and breathing, Red holding Jiminys' limp hand and breathing his sent while her golden wolf eyes stared at him in silent thanks.

Returning to the present to find Belle still watching him Rumplestiltskin shakes his head.

No, there is nothing that she can do at the present. Nothing but continue to sit across from him and hold his hand. It is the only thing that Belle can do, and it is much more than enough.

He doesn't want to read with her or have her mind working alongside his as he practices magic and creates spells and potions. He doesn't want her to put on music or allow him to destroy his more useless possessions. Making laughter rise from his throat is a no go, as is carving something out of wood and trimming new leather for their books while she sorts out the ones that need the most attention.

No. There is nothing Belle can do expect remain here, with him. Nothing expect remain beside him when the nightmares come, as they are sure to do. The memory of the past few hours will soon be forced deep into that corner of his mind that is accessible only through sleep. Just like all of the other memories too horrible to think about.

At a latter time Belle can do little else.

She might allow him to frighten the neighbors, wear bright colors for a while, see that there is not too much excess noise in the house, help him with his shop ledger, and continue to greet him with a smile when he walks in the door. She could refrain from complaining about the constant dust in her library, make Eggs Benedict for breakfast, become angry with him on occasion as he will become with her, and talk as much as she wants or sit quietly beside him.

Those things will help, yes, but they will not be what he values most. Waking to find Belle beside him when terrible images invade his mind? That is perhaps the most helpful thing she can do. The most meaningful thing, right now, latter, and in the far off future.

It is then that something catches his eye, and dropping his gaze to the middle of the table Rumplestiltskin sees it, sitting inches away from their clasped hands.

It is his chipped cup, the petals of the rose within it just brushing the outer rim of the blue and white china, a startling but beautiful contrast to the ebony-crimson hue of the flower.

Belle had presented him with it five days ago, a playful and soft smile on her face as she held out the rose sitting snuggly inside its new home.

"Here. If you'll have it."

Her words had been an echo of his own which were spoken so long ago inside a castle, and as had happened before he accepted the offering with thanks and bowed, Belle dipping into a curtsey in reply.

She had given it to him for no reason other than because she could.

His gaze returns once more to that same woman sitting across from him in time to see the bright blue pools flicker back to him, and Rumplestiltskin knows that Belle was looking at her gift and recalling the two mirror moments just as he had been.

Belle and Rumplestiltskin remain at the table throughout the night, the golden glow of the candles filling the room as they wait for dawn to break the horizon and Baelfire to rise, both too burdened by the death and suffering around them to sleep and taking too much comfort in the presence of the other to move about their sanctuary.

The rose within the chipped cup sits between them, a silent reminder of two lives that are separate and yet irreversibly intertwined.

Despite all of the pain and mistakes and misunderstandings, there are only a few things they would change.

This moment, right here and now?

It is not one of them.

**AN: The rose inside the cup is a Black Magic Rose, which is such as deep red that it has a slight black hue.**

** **

 

**Belle's dress**

** **


	12. Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen: Ribbons and Rings**

One of the few things that Belle has found that is the same in this world as hers are ribbons. The kind that are often used to contain or adorn one's hair.

In their world, because she was not yet married and therefore must have unbound hair, Belle had used them only when taking a bath and had not wanted her hair to get wet. Now she wears them almost every day, for there are no rules stating how one's hair must be worn.

Ribbons of all lengths, makes, and colors are almost always nestled within her dark hair, so much so that people often take a second look when on the rare occasion that she is not wearing one. Her ribbons come in many different forms, for Belle is a firm believer in verity. Some are the length of her arm while others just reach the crease of her elbow. They range in every hue conceivable: pale yellow, bottle green, sheer white, deep plum, and everything in between. They are cut from glossy silk, soft velvet, durable cotton, and even spun out wool. She might use them to simply hold her ponytail in place or the splash of color might be seen intertwining with the knots of her braid.

One day her favorite ribbon – a dark pink one that had been a gift from her papa last month – went missing. She asks Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire, but the pervious Dark One shakes his head and goes back to his accounting and her unofficial son (whom now finally appears to be 17 now that time has begun to move once again) declines having seen it and heads to the basement.

Huffing in frustration Belle heads off to work at the aquarium, one hand covering the barley noticeable curve of her stomach that she has yet to mention to her family.

For so long Belle had assumed that children were impossible for her, and now that she's found otherwise she isn't sure how Rumplestiltskin will feel about bringing a child into this post war town.

This town that has forced those that dwelt there to remain unchanged for six decades as a magical war raged around them, that drug them into the midst of countless battles and made them wade through blood and magical residue of friends and enemies alike.

This town from which no one entered nor left and those still alive have ancient eyes and horrible scars, whom for so long had woken with a start wondering whom had been lost that it's become a perfectly normal occurrence.

This town that possessed ogres, blind witches, and ghouls in human form, with one black clad devil with lips of poison apple red leading them all.

This town in which children have only recently began to grow up and yet are wise beyond their years due to horrors that no child should ever witness and terror no child should ever feel.

This town whose war of whom Baelfire may very well have become a fatality.

_Baelfire, whom had remained 14 years old for centuries and would still remain so, the boy whom designed their maps and organized their battle plans and was in charge of their troops._

_The brown haired boy barely more then a teenager who'd become a master at archery and fencing, whom took care of the younger children as their parents lay wounded or dying or had been captured in a battle gone wrong. Whom devoured books like a starving man and slept on his right side, who still hated magic and liked honey on his porridge, and who called her Mother and who's greatest fear was loosing his father._

The war within this town that could have taken Baelfire away from them.

_Taken him away in the manner that her lover had feared as a crippled and powerless spinner. The manner that, as a non cursed Dark One forced him to keep their son within his sights whenever possible and caused him - both of them - to jolt awake, gasping for breath and tears mingling with the sweat streaming down his face._

_Taken from them in the manner that had hunted the dreams of the boys' father for centuries in their world. The manner that compelled him to keep his son away from any battle in which the Orgers that had almost lead to Baelfire's certain death were present._

_Taken from them in order to face the creatures that Belle herself had seen and whose own terror for her son made her roll away the maps and send the boy from the room whenever word came that one of their troops had fallen to the monsters. She –his mother – sent him away because she knew that if he heard the news then he would want to lead the next surge himself, and as great as his skills were with the arrow and sword both Belle and Rumplestiltskin were determined that Baelfire would not suffer that fate. Each of his parents remained firm that he,_ _**a mere child** _ _would not be sent to fight and suffer and shed his life's blood in a war so like another battle long since passed._

_A pointless war fought in an enchanted land and that had reached the village of the Frontlands and come knocking on the door of a spinner and his child, a war that had lost all meaning decades upon decades ago. A war that had lost all meaning decades upon decades ago and in which peasants like themselves were made to wage battle against brutal and bloodthirsty creatures the size of three men and that possessed the strength of two galloping horses._

_Creatures that could rip men in half and eat the still steaming innards as they cleaved the heads from other unlucky souls, often with said souls own weapon._

_No. As long as each draw breath that is a fate that their son will_ _**never** _ _suffer in this war. They can't prevent the rest of his suffering, but they can (and do) prevent what would await him on that battlefield._

The town that is still teaming with unpredictable magic three years after the final battle and from which Regina has so recently been eliminated.

 _She will tell them tonight_ she reasons as she heads out the door, thoughts of her absent ribbon leaving her mind.

She also does not bother to ask what Bae is doing downstairs– he and his father have been working on something down there for the last month, "a surprise" they claim, and will tell her when they want to.

When Belle arrives home that afternoon it is learn what has been keeping her lover and son so busy. In the center of the kitchen table is a yellow rose. Draped over the steam of the rose is her missing hair ribbon, over which lay her positive pregnancy test and a ring.

She has just picked up the pregnancy test when, sensing someone behind her Belle turns around to meet the faces of the house's other two occupants. Rumplestiltskins' face is nervous and overjoyed as he sees the used plastic in her fingers once again, and Baes' is a mixture of determination and glee.

Belle now feels more then a little stupid for trying to keep her secret from these two men when it is apparent that not only had they knew for some time, but were overjoyed at the prospect and would do anything to protect the baby.

Belle begins to smile apologetically, but before she can open her mouth Rumplestiltskin nimbly reaches around her and plucks the ring from the table.

Sinking down onto his good knee he looks up at her, and with an expression that mirrors the one that was present all those years when he gave her a rose before letting her go, asks for her hand in marriage.

It is not exactly what one would expect from the man that once inspired terror throughout thirteen kingdoms, one whose masterful word play was more often then not a clever trap as well as a complex work of art and to whom the slightest misuse of a word was enough to alter the fate of everyone involved.

It is not an elaborate declaration of love and promises of devotion. His voice is calm as he utters the four simple words, for he has never once twisted or minced words when it came to her or his son, and Belle already knows the extent of his love for her.

Of course Belle accepts Rumplestltiskins' offer of marriage, providing it's a small and simple one.

The wedding that takes place four days later is indeed small and simple. It is just the preacher, Red and Jiminy, her papa, herself and Rumplestiltskin, and Baelfire. Rumplestiltskin, Jiminy, and Bae all wear black suits, her papa wears a white dress shirt while Red is clothed in a backless gown of ruby red. Belle chooses a simple white gown and wears her hair in an updo held with place with her pink hair ribbon, and carries one yellow rose.

When the final ceremonial words are spoken and after Belle has slid a silver ring on the finger of her new husband and her papa snaps a few pitchers, she notices for the first time the ring that had been presented to her in the kitchen on bended knee.

It is a silver ring, raised leaves gleaming on top of the single band, and in the center lies a pink rose.

 


	13. Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen: Headaches and Art**

This morning has brought about a new experience for Belle. An experience that is an unwelcome one, to say the least.

A hangover.

A hangover that Belle doesn't remember how she obtained the night before at Mulan's bachelorette party. She recalls something about a pink cake and a half naked guy along with vodka and jell-o shots…. lots and lots of vodka. This really shouldn't come a surprise seeing as Belle told them that she couldn't hold her liquor, not to mention that she hasn't been drunk since…. actually she's never been drunk, now that she thinks about it.

Perhaps _thinking_ is too optimistic a word. _Half formed thought accompanied by an ice pick jabbing itself though her brain_ would be more appropriate.

Belle groans and buries her head further underneath the blankets, trying to ignore how the birds outside the window sound like a marching band, her dry throat and the sent of the steaming coffee mug on the bedside table that is causing her stomach to do summersaults, not to mention the sledgehammer inside her head and the sunlight that must surly be an invention of the devil as it sneaks through the fabric covering her head.

On top of all this it has not escaped Belle's notice that at some point during her drunken blackout she decided to get tattoos. Not the kind that you apply with cold water, either. The kind with a needle and ink apparently a lot of pain, if her screaming nerves are any indication.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if she'd gotten one instead of eight it would have been a different story. As it is Belle now must resign herself to the fact that these ink images are here to stay:

There's a black and gray one depicting four roses complete with vines and leaves running the length of her right side, from her hip to the middle of her rib cage.

The pink rose on her left wrist is designed in amazing detail, but hurts like hell. Must be the colored ink.

Along the side of her left foot are six small pawprints, most likely meant to belong to the tiny mouse now residing on the curve of her left breast.

A rainbow butterfly now rests in the middle of her back.

Directly in the middle of her stomach there is an amazing tattoo of a pocket watch resting on a ribbon surrounded by four roses, the image appearing as if someone drew it on her skin with charcoal rather then ink.

The part of this whole tattoo experience that has Belle most confused is not that her drunken self had somehow decided it was a good idea to have an image on her ass of Regina's head on a pike, but the bloody image of Elmos' head that is now resting on the sole of her right foot.

As a new noise reaches her, the sound drilling into her brain like thumbscrews, Belle suddenly understands why she'd decided to become a murderer of monsters.

"It's Elmo's world. Da da. Elmos' world. Elmo loves his goldfish, his crayon too."

The high pitched voice of the annoyingly cheerful monster floats from downstairs, her four year old triplet sons obviously deciding to take in their daily allotted hour of TV _now_ in order to punish their mother for some unforgivable sin.

Belle has always hated that stupid singing red rat, and if the kids felt the same she'd gladly show them her foot. Too bad they love him to pieces. At least she didn't decide to kill Grover or Cookie Monster. That really wouldn't have gone over well.

Burrowing further inside her make shift nest and trying to ignore the white light of agony behind her eyeballs Belle resigns herself to a life of being a canvas and vows to _never_ drink again.

At least Rumplestiltskin will enjoy her new body art, especially the roses.

 

**Her bodyart**

Belle’s right side: <http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wBK85nuA9GU/Tp8B29h1lDI/AAAAAAAAHCU/-CG0du9yFe0/s1600/rose-vine-tattoo-110872.jpeg>

Her left wrist: <http://freefashionupdates.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/stylish-pink-rose-tattoo-2011-tattoos-1.jpg>

Left Foot: <http://www.tatt-oo.net/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/paw-print-foot-tattoos-1.jpg>

Breast: <http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4aERsMBOkOc/S2oALZpKfOI/AAAAAAAADRc/twaPxY-a-6g/s320/LittlemouseFemaleTattooArtCollections.jpg>

Middle Back: [http://tattoogallerydetails.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/butterfly-tattoo-galleries.jpg?w=294&h=300](http://tattoogallerydetails.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/butterfly-tattoo-galleries.jpg?w=294&h=300)

Stomach: <http://t-o-n-e.deviantart.com/gallery/25738340#/d4isfro>


	14. Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen: Baking**

There is a bowl residing in the house. It's one of those old ones, the kind that's made out of glass so thick and heavy it wouldn't crack if you threw it off a roof and that can't stand too high of heat. It is black with white roses along the side, and whatever the original purpose of the bowl had once been is irreverent. The bowl is now used for baking. What particular type of baking products go into the bowl, as well as what comes out, is irreverent as well. Anything and everything goes.

Blueberries, carrots, mint, eggs, zucchini, and mashed pumpkin.

White flour, sugar crystals, red food coloring, bananas, poppy seeds, chocolate, or oranges.

Milk, water, rum, vanilla, coffee, and apple juice.

Pancakes, lumpy balls of dough, something with black bits floating in it, red cake batter, bread, pie filling, frosting, some random concoction.

Things that turn out too runny or too thick, objects that explode with flour when bit into, goods that are healthy as well as terrible for you, things that are sold at a bake sale or devoured hours after they are taken from the oven.

That is the sole purpose of the bowl, and that is what its purpose shall always be.

So when Rumplestiltskin limps home from work and enters the kitchen to find his wife and four sons covered with flour from head to toe, cream flowing over the table and eggs splattered across the floor, he doesn't have to look at the counter to know that a black bowl with white roses is resting on top of it.


	15. Sixteen

 

**Chapter Sixteen: Passing On and Silver**

The hallway of the funeral home is what you'd expect from such a place: dim, enclosed, and utterly depressing.

Everyone has gone home.

Ariel and Phillip Peterson have begun their trip back to Greece, their twin red-haired daughters in tow.

Nathan and Snow Charmin, their four young children, as well as Pinocchio and Emma Booth have left for their mountain home in Colorado, Emma and Pinocchios' newborn twins held in the arms of their grandmother and father.

Aladdin and Jasmine Gray will soon be returning to Australia, their horse ranch awaiting them.

Jiminy and Red Hopper are walking back to their home across town, their two year old daughter, Lucy, asleep on her father's shoulder.

Mulan and Aurora Chang were unable make it but had sent their condolences through an email video attachment, their eyes compassionate and their joined hands visible at the base of the screen.

Jefferson and Alice Hatter were just only able to make it from their Florida home, Grace arriving just before the end of the service. All three of them are staying at a hotel just outside of town for the night.

Peter Pan – Kales' private jet flies him from his mansion in the Swiss Alps with four hours to spare, a heavily pregnant Tinkerbelle holding the man's dark hand all the while.

Baelfire, now 25 and living at home while going to college and working full time is most likely boarded up in his room. It is reasonable to assume that he is with Henry Swan – Booth. The grandson of Snow White and Nathan, the son of Emma and August, and the once adoptive son of Regina would have chosen to stay rather then leave with his family due to the increasing seriousness of the romantic relationship developing between himself and her son.

Her and her husbands' eight year old triplet sons – Gabriel, Richard, and Peter – are either still in the building or heading home.

Belle, alone now that all of the well meaning guests have departed, stands beside the open casket gazing down at the body of her papa.

The body that doesn't resemble her papa at all. It couldn't, not when the cancer had turned him into the skeletal thin man before her. Not when it had eaten away at his body for months and turned his eyes yellow, not after countless hours of useless treatments that he had only gone through because of her and his grandchildren. Treatments that only resulted in pain and bloody vomit, time wasted as he slept and worry in _his_ eyes when he caught sight of the bandages wrapped around her bruised hand – the result of punching a couple of holes in the wall and rearranging Dr. Whale's nose before her husbands' cane could do it for her.

Now her papa is dead.

The man that joined in her games as a child and taught her to read and write, to swim in the sea and to fish upon the open waves that bordered their village almost before she could walk is no more.

The parent that raised his daughter without a word of complaint after his wife died upon her birth. The father that looked upon her with pride no matter what she did: if she proved daily that she was smarter then the instructors at her run down school, ran home soaked to the bone in order to bring him a sparkling multihued clam she'd retrieved from the sea bed, or if she calmly and efficiently gutted and scaled the fish from that days catch

_ Is dead.

The man that was appointed the leader of their village and transformed it and the surrounding land from poverty and muck to one of wealth and green earth, whom still allowed her to read and swim in the sea despite her higher status and his instance that she receive an education equal to that of a man, and had promised her hand to Gaston after the ogres struck so as to ensure her well being should he perish

_ Has passed away.

The father that was prepared to sacrifice the life of everyone in his land rather than allow her to be used in a deal with a dangerous magical man clad in dragon skin, whom had developed a relationship with that same man whom was now his son-in-law that could almost be classified as respect along with a faint sense of actually _liking_ the man, and the grandfather whom adored his all four of his grandsons as much as he did his daughter

_ Is gone forever. He's never coming back.

Hearing a muffled thump behind her Belle reaches behind her without moving her eyes from sunken face before her, not having to look to know that it is her husband's hand she is grasping.

She doesn't have to look, not after eight years as his wife and sixty six as his lover. Seventy four years in all.

It's not required to even momentarily avert her gaze to know that his graying hair is loose about his face and just brushing his nape, that his reading glasses (which he had put on so as to read the eulogy) are still resting upon his nose, or that the thick stubble that he's neglected to shave is more white then gray.

Belle doesn't need to look at Rumplestiltskin to know that the lines in his face (one that appears 45 despite having over three centuries on them all) are more deeply etched due to the passing of a man whom he'd never admit to liking and whom he once beat almost to death with his cane. The man too whose funeral her husband has not worn all black, as is the custom, but donned the dark pink tie and pocket handkerchief that had long been a source of good natured amusement for her father.

Nor does Belle have to turn her head to know that his eyes are filled with a grief that he'd never admit to as well as concern and compassion when he looks at her. She doesn't need to turn to know that he wants to kiss her, right on those faint little lines that are developing at the corners of her eyes.

A slight breeze hits them, flowing in through an open window and making Belle suddenly aware of a slight weight about her neck, just above her breasts. Putting her unoccupied hand up to where the weight is swinging softly against her she takes the object between her fingers. It takes only a moment for Belle to recognize it.

It's the rose necklace that Rumplestiltskin had given her the day that she birthed their sons, the one with the delicate silver chain from which hangs a small, upside down silver rose, a milky pearl nestled within the heart of the flower.

It had been her papas' favorite necklace, the one he'd liked to see her wear most often. She must have put it on that morning without realizing it.

That doesn't surprise Belle. She hasn't been aware of much, these past few days. She didn't even arrange the funeral preparations. Rumplestiltskin had seen to everything, from the guests to the flower arrangements and even the color of her papas' casket. He was protecting her once again, keeping the promise he'd made in his shop all those years ago as he clung to a woman whom had no idea who he was. The promise that he has never broken and, she knows, has no intention of ever doing so.

Rumplestiltskin and Belle continue to stand there for a time, their hands joined as they look at the body before them that once held the soul of someone very much loved.

That breeze continues to blow, ruffling clothing and graying hair as it does so. Tears stream unnoticed down Belle's face, her fingers playing with the object between them seemingly of their own accord.

The sun has begun to set before Rumplestiltskin tugs gently at his wives' hand, leading her away from the casket that holds her father's body and out into the foyer, where their sons are waiting.

The silver rose between her fingers sparkles in the light of the fading sun.

**For an older Rumplestiltskin think of Nicholas Rush from the** _**Stargate: Universe** _ **series.**

**Picture Karl Urban as an adult Baelfire. I think, appearance wise, he'd be perfect for the role. Do you, or does someone better suited come too mind?**


	16. Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen: Warmth**

As he entered his home that night, the chiming of the clock informing him that midnight had just passed, the first sight that awaited Rumplestltiskins' eyes was of a purple lump on the couch. Squinting his tired eyes in an attempt to identify what he was looking at Rumplestiltskin stepped further into the house, ignoring the ever present pain in his leg as he leaned heavily on his cane. Coming to a stop in front of the couch he continued to blink fuzzily at the large object for a few seconds, thinking that either one of two things had to change if it was taking him this long to recognize something within his own home.

The first was that his 49 year old eyes required stronger glasses. The second was that he should never stay out so late with Jiminy Hopper again, no matter how much his old friend goaded him into one more game of cards.

Just then the object on the couch made a noise that Rumplestiltskin was all too familiar with: a sniffle followed by a sleepy sigh.

Belle. The object was Belle.

Felling incredibly stupid for not recognizing his wife previously he took a closer look, soon understanding why he had not known whom the lump was. Belle was not simply curled up on the couch, she was practically cocooned underneath her favorite blanket, a fairly large quilt with six, large dark purple roses laid across a white and lavender background that he himself had given to her some years previously. Belle was so deeply buried underneath it in fact, that only the very top of her head was visible.

Smiling fondly down at the sleeping from of his Belle even as another twinge of pain crept up his leg and fatigue made his eyes throb, causing Rumplestiltskin to grab a pillow from the foot of the couch, lifting up one side of the quilt in order to lay next to Belle. Suppressing a moan of relief as he laid his leg upon the pillow, the elevation reliving some of his pain, he settled next to his wife on the soft and spacious couch, Belle's familiar form beside him and the warmth provided by the violet roses on top of him soon lulling him into sleep.


	17. Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen: Peace, An Absence of Fear, and Joy**

For a lot of people, he is sure, roses in the bedroom that they share with their spouse indicate a romantic gesture, one that is likely to lead to lovemaking.

For Rumplestiltskin the roses within his and Belles' bedroom represent something else entirely.

There are roses within the wrought iron of their bedstead, the foot and head of the bed full of twisting vines and half full blooms.

The stained glass lamp on Belle's bedside table contains roses, bathing the room in a soft cherry colored glow whenever it is lit.

Directly opposite the bed is Belle's dresser, upon which is a slim vase that often contains the most recent rose he has gifted her with, or she him.

They will often read side by side in bed, either commenting on each-others' novels or one of them reading aloud. Occasionally he will be the one reading, perceiving the soft scratch of Belle's quill on the bejeweled page of her rose journal in the otherwise silent room as soothing as opposed to aggravating.

They are present on Belle as well, decorating her nightclothes with splashes of color and her body with ink. The rose ring upon her finger that marks her as his, forever. The sweet sent that is ever present on her body, the sent that he adores and still draws him in after all these decades and would know anywhere even if the departure of this world's magic had not seen fit to leave him with this one heightened sense.

So when Rumplestiltskin wakes during the night, weather it is due to one of the old nightmares, because the millions of memories of all those who have previously held his power have invaded his mind, or if it is simply because he has grown too accustomed to battle to sleep soundly, it is rare that he is afraid for a prolonged length of time.

He will see the roses adorning the bed and catch sight of the rose that gleams silver in the moonlight on the dresser and notice the ruby red petals of the lamp and his fear will began to fade. He will remember the rose journal that is not yet full even though eight decades of ink fill the pages and he will feel his rose covered wife next to him and smell the perfume on her skin and he will feel peace wash over him.

Lately, after he has calmed he will slip his hand underneath the covers and rest it upon his wives' stomach, and the rounded bump that holds their daughter's tiny form fills him with joy.


	18. Nineteen

 

 

**Chapter Nineteen: The One That Matters Most**

Of all the roses that have been in their lives, this one is the best.

Rose. Their daughter

The girl is completely adored by their sons, whom spoil the tiny thing rotten and would do anything to protect her. They take her with them almost anywhere and everywhere, playing games and dropping her off at the bookstore or walking her to school. She knows how to play them too, the devious little thing. All it takes is one pretty smile and a glance of her blue eyes and they're caught, hook, line and sinker. They're so inseparable that by the time she was two years old it became difficult for Rumplestiltskin to distinguish his daughter's sent – apples – from Gabriel's cinnamon, Baelfire's woodsmoke and Henrys' clear water, Peters' walnut, or Richard's lemon. All of it had become sprinkled and dashed about along the other, soon becoming an almost permanent fixture.

At the age of three she has chewed all the ears off her stuffed rabbits, thinks that bananas, Barney and the Tellie Tubbies rule the world, can't sleep unless both he and Belle read her a story apiece, and loves to play at the park and use his best ties as props in her games – animals tails, to be more precise.

When she is nine she breaks her wrist, beats up a boy in her health class, bounces up and down in her seat despite Belle's restraining hand on her shoulder when Henry finally manages to drag Baelfire to the courthouse just so that the rings they've been wearing around their necks can find new homes on their fingers, and talks her father into buying her a goldfish.

At twelve years old she calls her mother in a panic because she's just gotten her first period and her dad has gone white and has been staring at thin air for ten minutes, asks and is promptly denied the request to dye her dark hair pink, spends even more time then usual in the library and becomes angrier then her parents when she learns that Peter and Lucy Hopper eloped without telling anyone. Actually, the only ones more angry then them seem to be Lucys' parents, whom the girl avoids calling for a week after her mothers' eyes stop glowing gold.

When she has reached the age of thirteen she begins to notice boys and when it becomes apparent to Rumplestiltskin that they have begun to notice her he wishes he still had magic so as to turn them all into snails. She becomes an aunt to Gabriel's twins – brown eyed Christopher and green eyed Maggie – and soon gains a new sister in law when two months latter they witness the marriage of her brother to Grace Hatters' daughter, Claire. Rose proves that she is her parent's daughter when witnessing a classmate with Downs Syndrome being teased she quite calmly approaches the tormenter – a girl with at least three inches on her – and after only a few quiet sentences said tormenter never bothers her victim again.

By the time their daughter is seventeen she has crashed their car, learned to wield her mother's sword, was the bridesmaid at Richard's duel wedding to Cinderella's Alexandria – Elle – and Lily Glass – the daughter of that despicable mirror man - , and has become an aunt ten times over. She has finished high school early and already has plans to see the world before becoming a doctor, although she is going to stay at home for a few more years at the very least.

At the age of twenty five when she is an intern at a Boston hospital she follows in the footsteps of her mother and falls in love with someone whom Rumplestiltskin deems entirely unsuitable. A complete and utter jackass of a doctor with twenty years on her, whom posses a brilliant mind and walks with a cane and a limp due to an damaged leg. A doctor with gray hair and stubble, whose sarcasm and wit has earned his entire families' admiration, and who earns his respect when he stares him down with an expression like that of a wolf. A man who doesn't think that he is good enough for his Rose (Rumplestiltskin is in full agreement on that front), and whose blue eyes gaze at his daughter with what Rumplestiltskin knows is present within his own eyes when he looks at Belle.

He doesn't like this man, but he supposes that he's going to have to come to terms with it. For their daughter has grown into a beautiful, courageous, and cunning young woman with the intelligence and kindness to match. She will be fine.

Yes, out of all the roses, Rose Vivian Gold is Belle and Rumplestltiskins' most precious one of all.

**END**

**Hope you all enjoyed this, and points to anyone that caught the** _**House** _ **references.**


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